


Unwind

by DistantStorm



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Post-Warmind, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-03 04:56:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17277473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DistantStorm/pseuds/DistantStorm
Summary: The Commander returns home from Mars following the events of the Warmind expansion. Naturally, he has some concerns. Hawthorne helps him relax.





	Unwind

It's almost dawn when he returns to the Tower from Mars. There's no way that she'll be awake, he's certain she had plenty to do with him away tending to concerns on Mars. Which, he'd thought about those concerns the entire flight back home. Just another potential threat, Rasputin was, lying in wait. Anastasia thought she could control him - and maybe to some extent she could curb his voracious appetite for destruction if it were directed somewhere inappropriate. But the warmind having autonomy sent a shiver down his spine, made the taste of ashes and apocalypse burn in his mouth. The things Rasputin could do if aligned against humanity… he couldn't bear to think it, and yet, it's another hypothetical he’d have to be prepared for.

He enters his flat slowly, quietly, mindful of his usual guest and their bird who will be sleeping at such a late(early) hour. Truth be told, he's ready to clean up and tuck into bed for a few hours of fitful sleep himself. However, the sound of water running meets him, and the door to the washroom is open, light spilling into the hall. He sighs. Of course. Of course she's awake, of course she knows he's back. The logistics of the thing are something else, something not important right now.

She doesn't look like she's slept. The bed is made up and unmussed, and she's unbraiding her hair in front of the mirror, the bath filling with warm water and making the whole room that fuzzy kind of warm that soothes instantly.

“Hey,” She greets, eyes on him through the mirror. If she sees his posture relax, his shoulders roll down under the weight of his burdens, she doesn't comment. Her hair sways with her as she turns to him, gesturing to his armor. “Need a hand?”

Zavala appreciates that she doesn't ask him the obvious questions. She always knows, and maybe it's that Hunter intuition Cayde blathers about that tells her that he's tired, worried, and a bit sore all based on visual cues. She doesn't fight him on what he can't tell her about - knows he's required to keep his fair share of secrets. She has her own, too, and while maybe not of the same tier of importance, she will hint at things that surprise him from time to time.

The fact that he'd ever considered Suraya Hawthorne unintelligent or beneath him astounds him sometimes. Her intelligence is subtle and dangerous. She only lets a person know she's as smart as she wants them to. It's a dangerous thing.

“I've got it,” He answers after watching her continue to card her hands through her hair. She hums, and turns back to the mirror. He watches a few more moments - her hair is just too enticing, smelling of lavender shampoo and something that's more primal, something that's exquisitely  _her_ , ebony ink waves that cascade down to the small of her back, wild and free and only on display for him.

He doesn't have it, he realizes, only when his Ghost appears a moment after that, transmatting his armor away with the softest drone of ambient sound and Hawthorne's thanks.

She reaches to take his hand then, pulling him into the washroom and shutting the door behind him. “Clothes off,” She instructs, and suddenly he can feel the red dust and Hive ichar that seemingly clings to him like a second skin. He refuses to join her until he rinses off in the adjacent shower. She lets him go. Whether or not her robe falling to the floor as she takes the two steps up to his rather roomy bath is meant to be a show doesn't matter. It's the best thing he's seen in weeks, second only to the expanse of her neck and top of her chest when she reclines in the hot water, eyes closed but everything else about her very, very alert.

“What is your schedule for today?” He asks, in a gravel-laiden voice that's trying to keep professional. Once he's out of his work mindset, with her, especially, there's no going back until he's sated.

Her eyes blink open and find his through the glass of the shower stall. “I switched my day shift for Cayde's night.”

“That would have been his, anyway. He was covering for me.”

“You remember that I do most of his paperwork, right?” She sits up in the bath and water trails down her front, over peaks and curves. He shuts off the shower and slides open the door. “I don't go back until tomorrow morning. Same time as you, as it were.” The small smile is cheeky, but he knows it's meant to be sweet. She's subtly affectionate. It's appropriate considering their lives are public knowledge. Though he won't deny her mostly-asleep cuddling against him when he comes to bed late is incredibly gratifying, things like this move him the most.

“Suraya, have I told you lately that you are incredible?”

“I haven't spoken to you in two weeks,” She says in a grumble, though she looks down and away and blushes. He isn't sure if it's his casual nudity - though she'd started it - or if it's his praise of her. He wagers it's a bit of both. “So, no.”

“Allow me to remedy tha-  _ohh_.” He sinks into the water of the large bath, stopped from reclining against her inviting form by her hands, kneading into his shoulders.

His head falls back with a groan as she laughs, a quiet, knowing thing. Her fingers press into stress-taught muscle and sinew, rendering him limp and pliant against him in record time. She'd never admit it, not to anyone, but he's an incredibly attractive man and she loves putting her hands on him. He's not exactly touch starved, but she knows it does something to him to be pushed and petted on, especially after grueling work - be it mental or physical.

It doesn't take long to put him into a relaxed daze, especially being tired to start with. Sometimes, like now, the motion of her massaging his shoulders reminds him of other things. Things that will ultimately help him sleep better, that make his hips squirm just a touch, seeking friction that isn't there in front of him for the taking.

She knows though, she always does, and one hand slides down his back and around his front and he's gasping, leaning against her completely as she takes him in hand. She moves slowly enough, almost demure if not for the pressure she applies that's too good.

If she does it right, if he's relaxed enough by the time they start, he'll make little noises, mumbles of sound half-aborted, his brain switched off to his typical overthinking. He doesn't beg, but he does ramble, smoothstone words that start with  _yes - like that; ah, perfect; you know exactly how to-_ , dissolve into humming moans, that tell her she's in control, and end with needy repetitions of  _more, just like - yes, Suraya, do that again, I need more, I want-_

He doesn't realize that he does it, if she gets him relaxed enough. Maybe, on some level he does, but only when she slows her hand to an overwhelmingly slow crawl, his hips pushing him up, up into the ring her fingers make around his member, and says, “Bed, Commander. Now.”

She's not incredibly talented at more than the basics when it comes to sexual acts. Prides herself on being the no-frills,  _stick it in me, make me come_  type of simple. But she knows what little things work - knows his title, uttered just so in his ear will get him moving faster than a demand, that asking him if he's going to come makes his hips jag just a little faster. Maybe early on she had been a bit overwhelmed by the whole thing, but now it's second nature. Now, she doesn't blush, only pushes a little further, a testament to her growing comfort.

He turns his face into her neck, eyes shut, hips still stuttering though she's removed her hand. His lips press hard against the column of her throat, sucking a mark at her pulsepoint. The Commander only stops when she gasps and trembles against his back, eyes opening slowly.

When he does rise from the cooling water, it's to hold out a towel for her to step into when she follows. Of course, he's got an ulterior motive, drying her is a sensual rouse designed to allow him to touch her everywhere without interruption. He starts with her neck and torso, sliding to her navel and following all the way down to the insteps of her feet, thoroughly drying her off before guiding her to the bedroom.

He's tactile in a great many ways, and all of them work for her. The attention he gives her is intense, his focus unwavering. Even now, when it's supposed to be about him relaxing again, he's pushing her hand away, rolling onto his side on the bed, ignoring the evidence of his arousal in lieu of latching his mouth to her left breast and sinking a finger into her core all at once.

There are no thoughts in his head except for the sweet mewling sounds that escape her when he crooks his fingers, or the gasping sighs when he flicks his tongue over her nipple just right. He works her right up to the edge and backs away, allows the haze of pleasure to recede just enough that she's teetering between not enough and  _there_. She is a greedy lover, and he drinks up her demands for more, though he makes her work for him to add another finger, makes her writhe and moan until she's practically mindlessly seeking more by whatever means necessary. He chuckles warmly in her ear when she begs him ( _take me already_ ), and where she’d once become frazzled and upset and embarrassed, she only nods and squeezes her eyes shut when he tells her to hold on just a little longer.

The scales tip in favor of each in equal measure, eventually balancing out when he's sinking into her, all the way to the hilt, and she's whispering “Welcome home,” In his ear between sweet, satisfied groans.

His reply is a growling, “I missed you,” against the side of her face before he kisses her so hard she feels like she's forgotten how to breathe and that's perfectly alright.

Nothing about their sex is extraordinary. They almost always start in missionary, and sometimes change it up after she’s hit her first orgasm, so that she’s riding him and he can relax, let her coax his release out of him. Sometimes they reverse the order, when he’s looking to stay right on the brink for as long as possible. There’s no wayward bolts of arc to take her to the edge or void to chill her spine. Only panting, needy groans, the rhythmic pounding of their joining, and messy, passion-drunk kisses that definitely don’t end the neat, orderly way they start.

Despite that, he almost always pulls her right over the edge with him, gasping into her neck when the pleasure pulls his orgasm out of him and starts a chain reaction from which she cannot escape. More than that, it’s the silent, heavy-breathing filled moments afterwards, when they’re laying beside each other, one foot touching the other’s or occasionally hands linked together, blissed out and sated, too boneless to move to clean up that says it all. The charm in their intimacy is that it’s nothing special, just two people, at their most basic level, with a connection. No Commanders or Clan Stewards, no one particular person in charge.

It’s times like this that Zavala will find words spilling from his lips, though he’s far more detached from them than he would have been if she’d pressed him earlier. She doesn’t though. She does not have to press him for information, since she’s established the leylines of communication between them months ago. So when his anxieties about Rasputin are voiced in quiet ocean waves of words, it isn’t that she latches onto. It’s that Anastasia isn’t listening to him when he has her - and everyone’s best interests at heart. It amazes him that she can harbor such strong emotions even though they’re both tripped out and blissed up in the afterglow.

Her defense of him always makes his chest feel warm. Even on the smallest, most insignificant things. Ana has always been in her way, nothing will change her. Suraya thinks Ana’s an absolute idiot - and no she does not care if he regards her as a friend - because friends don’t do that sort of thing. Friends at least hear each other out.

Of course, it’s only the loose-lipped afterglow that has him waxing poetic, rolling to face her to say that she might have the body - the mind - of a Hunter, but there is no doubt she has a Titan’s heart.

His heart, really, but he’s beginning to think she could already tell.


End file.
